


Victor

by Rainah (RainahFiclets)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainahFiclets/pseuds/Rainah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Johanna Mason, it didn't end in the arena. A snapshot of winning the 71st Hunger Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victor

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted a while ago on my tumblr, but as I was looking over my old stuff I realised I'd never put it up here. In honour of the new movie, here's a snapshot in time from one of my favourite characters.

The trumpets sound, announcing her victory. They sound hollow in the huge arena.

The boy from district one slides out of her arms to lay on the grass, his body slick with blood. A tiny blade sticks into his neck, and even though he’s dead the blood doesn’t stop.

She wants to feel triumphant. Wants to feel joyful. She’d even settle for remorse. But Johanna Mason feels nothing at all. Just the the slick, hot blood that flows in rivulets down her arms. It stains her clothes and coats her long hair.

 _That’s not good._ She manages to think. _That won’t come out._ Blood was so hard to wash out of fabrics.

The boy from district one doesn’t look so bad in death. If they weren’t in an arena to kill each other, would she have spoken to him?

She probably would have killed him anyways, she decides. The idea makes her smile.

The doctors say she’s in shock. They bolt her down to a bed, and it brings back all the memories of the arena. She tries to block the thoughts out, because screaming and thrashing have proved ineffective. Apparently. She doesn’t remember. Instead, her thoughts linger on her district partner.

He’d been a giant of a man, twice her size but as gentle as a dormouse. Enraging, but only in the sense that he’d been the one lavished with attention while she was set aside. Even the careers had approached him, briefly. Not one had looked at her, the wide-eyed little girl with hands too small to wield a sword. So she’d played the weak and cowardly fool exactly as they’d wanted, and come out swinging when their backs were turned. Tributes were much easier to kill when they thought you were an ally. And her district partner had been the first to go. Tied to a hospital bed deep underground, her thoughts trace over how he looked when she stuck a knife into his stomach. Not after, when his eyes were sightless and pained, but right before. Freeze it. Rewind.

Thoughts of death and dying remain as they take the drip out of her arm. Memories of blood and fear that threaten to choke her. She forces it all down, though, and sits quietly as her stylist helps her into her victory night dress.

Immediately she can see how different it is then the ones she wore before. They were fluttery and sparkly and far too often leafy, designed to hide her behind a blush and a smile. This dress is black and figure-hugging, with a high slit up the leg. A sweetheart neckline shows off things she didn’t have before they operated. Criss-cross straps hold it up, attaching behind her neck with a little collar. Very sexy, they tell her. Height of fashion.

Blight sees her before they go onstage and does a double take. “What?” He gasps out, rounding on her stylist. “Who dressed her like this?”

"I did. President’s orders. He wanted to salvage something from these games.” She replies haughtily, stalking off to take her bow. Blight says nothing else as they run though the interviews. She watches the three hour movie from a filmmaker’s perspective, observing the different camera angles instead of reliving the screams of her victims. Over the course of two weeks she killed eight people in the arena. Two careers, four useless children. One little boy with hair as dark as coal. And her district partner, the ultimate betrayal.

The interview is interesting. Caesar doesn’t seem to know what to do with her, after she duped him and the rest of the world. She can’t remember anything of her strategy at this point, if she’s supposed to be coquettish, sexy, or flustered, so for once she settles on a harshness that comes more naturally than anything else. Each answer is short and to the point, and they seem to like it for the most part. She doesn’t care.

Blight manages to work up a snarl as they get back to the training center. It’s after midnight. “Get the hell out of those clothes, you look like a whore.”

"Yes father." She snarls back, furious with him. "I didn’t know you cared so much." The hard, mocking edge in her voice makes him bristle and turn on her. She tenses, back in the arena for a moment as she waits for a blow.

They’re interrupted by the sound of someone coming in. Who shows up at the training center at one in the morning? Apparently Finnick Odair. Even slightly intoxicated, he’s gorgeous. The capitol broadcasts weren’t lying, in fact, he looks even better in person.

"What are you doing? Can’t you see we’re a bit busy here?" She demands.

He takes one look at her, the revealing dress, and shakes his head grimly at Blight. “How old is she?”

"I’m standing right here!" She bursts out. Blight ignores her, but Finnick doesn’t. His famous eyes catch hers with concern. It makes her even angrier, enough to barely register Blight’s reply.

"Fifteen maybe?"

"Sixteen." She snarls. So nice of _her mentor_ to know these things. “And why do you care?” She killed his tribute this year too. He had been good looking, but not anything like Finnick.

"Come on Johanna." Blight said, looking uncomfortable.

She takes the time to mutter “ _prissy fish-boy whore_ ” under her breath before following her mentor to the elevators.

"What is your problem?" She asks Blight, and, not waiting for an answer, stalks into her room and shuts the door. All her clothes have been replaced. Instead of the sundresses and bright floral prints she now has aggressive reds, blacks, and deep purples in an array of tight outfits. She hadn’t brought anything of worth to the capitol, so it’s no loss, but it still makes her pause. She’ll wear one of these tomorrow, going home to district seven. Home to her family, who said goodbye without ever imagining they would see her again. Now they will have at least part of her back, bloodied and broken and dressed up in someone else’s clothes.The capitol will even bring food with her, feasting for everyone in the district, and there would be a large house in a meadow with her name on it. 

Johanna Mason, victor.

Maybe it will be enough to make her forget all the blood.


End file.
